He sat alone in the mess tent and ate breakfast. He had been born in England, but his name and skin colour meant that he hadn’t made any real friends in Kota Tinggi. Some were OK, like Slugger Stevenson, but most of the men were racist bigots. It had been the same in Fleet Air Arm. It was probably the same the world over.
He didn’t do much wrong. Not really. He was the scapegoat really, and in the beginning he hadn’t understood the big picture. He’d thought the arrangement was more innocent, but the payments he had received made him realize that this was something much, much bigger. He had laughed at the simplicity of the arrangement, at its audacity. It was blatant and yet secret at the same time.
He found out the initial route had been by the train that ran the length of the country. It had worked for a couple of years, starting small and building into the big operation it was today. But trains were dangerous, too restrictive. The Man had been involved in the early days and had seen the risk of using the stations. Which, after all, were in the centre of the towns. The one in Johor Bahru was next to the hospital, which was handy. When they stepped up the operation, the use of the trains had to stop.
He jumped on a ride to Tebrau airfield, arriving before the aid truck with his cargo. As he watched them draw up alongside the Auster, he thanked God that the Man had approached him. He would retire rich. His plan was to get as far away from Asia as possible. Maybe he would go to India. There, he’d be a very rich man.
He strode over. Stevenson, the beefcake of a sergeant, watched him approach from the comfort of the Bedford’s cab. Stevenson pretended to be a friend but he wasn’t really. He just felt sorry for him as an outsider.
Jeevan had been the only man on camp who hadn’t watched the fight between Stevenson and the ex-MP government man. Everyone else wanted the Slugger to win. Jeevan hadn’t cared; he would have been happy for both to lose.
He arrived at the plane early and watched as the final boxes were loaded into the hold by a couple of men. “Any decent drugs?” Jeevan asked the two aid workers.
“Piss off!” was the reply he received. These stupid grunts have no sense of humour, Jeevan thought. He picked up the manifest and checked it off against the boxes in the hold. The engineer handed him his gear and told him the plane was fuelled up and good to go.
The guy performed his usual ritual of patting the pilot on the back for luck and took up his position at the front of the plane.
Jeevan fired up the engine and the chocks were removed. He gave the ground crew the thumbs up and taxied out and onto the runway.
It would be a long ride, almost two hours over some of the worst areas of fighting, but he would feel safe at four miles up. It would be another bumpy ride, but he was a damn good pilot and turbulence made otherwise dull flights more interesting.
He made one last check of his instruments.
There was a crosswind and, as he accelerated along the runway, he felt the tug to one side. The poor condition of the tarmac didn’t help.
Shy of seventy miles an hour, the wheels left the ground and the Auster lurched hard left as Jeevan fought against a gust of wind. He rapidly gained control and the plane lifted into the air and towards the heavy sky that promised another wet day.
Just before he reached the cloud ceiling, he felt a judder. It didn’t feel like the wind. This was different. The plane juddered again and alarm rushed through his veins. It felt like he was out of fuel.
The engine spluttered. He checked the fuel gauge. It said “full”. For the first time he smelled something: the sharp acrid scent of an electrical spark.
In the hold, the fuel had pooled towards the tail. The small electrical device had been clicking for some time, its battery almost spent, but the sparks continued. As the Auster started to level out, the fuel moved back along the body of the plane.
When the sparks ignited the fuel, the explosion was instantaneous.
THIRTY-FIVE
On the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur, I crossed a small river and stopped. My clothes were caked in sweat, blood and dirt, and my exposed skin was dirtier still. I splashed my face and set off once more.
Both Hegarty and Bender were now in the rear and I must have looked a terrible sight as I drove into the city.
My first impression of Kuala Lumpur was of a run-down Chinese market. The streets were lined with vendors calling for customers and shouting at thieves. Now and again the smell of sewage rose and fell and combined with rotten fruit and vegetables.
In one street I found the way blocked by the sheer weight of people. The sound of my horn was barely audible above the cacophony of street sellers.
The first person to react was an elderly woman. She stared at the bodies in the rear of the Land Rover and started to scream.
Within seconds, the whole crowd was shouting and waving their arms. But they parted, pulling children and animals out of my way.
Eventually I neared the centre, where the streets were exceptionally wide and colonial buildings lined either side. Here the city seemed very similar to Singapore, British-run and wealthy. I stopped by an alarmed policeman and asked for the main hospital.
I’d assumed the Kuala Lumpur hospital would be near the centre but was wrong. It seemed I must have been close before and was directed back to the edge of the city.
I’ve never heard the simile “as pretty as a hospital” and doubt I ever shall. However, Kuala Lumpur Hospital was about as ugly as one could be, characterless and like an office block.
When I arrived at the gates, the immediate assumption was that I was here because of the bodies. I was here because of Jane’s phone call. She’d sent a memo to hospitals about Laura van Loon and another patient had recognized the name.
I explained to the guard that I was also here to see a patient. When I parked, I asked a couple of orderlies to get the bodies inside. Although cloudy, it must have been eighty degrees Fahrenheit, and the sergeant had been dead for almost three hours.
Shrouds were placed over them and, one at a time, they were taken from the Land Rover.
Once inside, I spoke to the receptionist and explained. I repeated the explanation to a male administrator who agreed that the bodies could be taken to Singapore. Having sorted that, I asked where I would find the Cardoso girl.
“Please take a seat, Mr Carter,” the administrator said. “I’ll find the doctor for you.”
I guessed this meant something had happened. Perhaps the girl was no longer at the hospital. I was given a cup of water and sat and waited.
Half an hour passed before a doctor came to find me. He introduced himself as Shaheen Meah. Although his eyes showed signs of extreme tiredness, he had a bright smile and a shiny scalp. However, as soon as the smile faded, I knew there was bad news. He drew me into a private room.
“I’m afraid the young lady died last evening,” he began.
If I’d been able to speak to the girl I might have obtained news about Laura.
I grimaced. “What did she die of?”
“Typhoid. She was also terribly malnourished and barely coherent. If you drove from the south you will have gone through some of the worst-affected areas. We have a typhoid epidemic in the shanty areas.”
I nodded. That explained why I’d caused so much panic as I drove through the city. I looked a state and I had two dead bodies in the back. They thought we had typhoid.
The doctor continued: “We think it’s under control, but the people are paranoid. The disease is spread by the polluted water, but most of the people think you can catch it directly off someone infected.”
I said, “What can you tell me about the girl?”
The doctor had a folder but he didn’t need to look at it. “Female, white skinned, dark hair, five two, five stone eleven. All skin and bones. Very underweight and weak. Said she was sixteen.”
I said, “I understand that the girl recognized Laura van Loon’s name. She’s really the one I’m looking for.”
“Yes, one of the nurses asked the Cardoso girl. Sh
e thought the girl recognized the name but, like I said, the girl was incoherent. She had a raging fever and was delirious. She kept saying something about a poisonous flower, but we couldn’t make sense of it. Maybe she thought the fever had been caused by a flower she’d eaten. She also said there were three of them—three girls. Maybe the van Loon girl was one of the others. However no one similar has turned up. So where she came from and who she was with is a mystery.”
He had no more information, and when I asked, he gave me the file. “I had a copy made,” he said. “When I heard a government man from Singapore was interested, I knew you’d want a copy.”
I said, “How did you know?”
“The memo we received. The one saying that you were looking for Laura van Loon.”
I nodded although the memo had come from Jane not me. I opened the file and saw that the first thing was a photograph of Monalisa Cardoso’s naked body on the mortuary slab.
The doctor said, “Did you know her?”
I shook my head.
“Despite her claims of poison, there was no evidence,” Doctor Meah said. “Just typhoid, although we didn’t do a full autopsy. My theory is that she’s walked a long way. She was starving and probably caught typhoid from a dirty stream.”
I didn’t expect an autopsy, not when they had a typhoid epidemic. I’m not a doctor and I wouldn’t know poisoning when I saw it, but still I said, “I’d like to see her.”
He blinked. “Oh, I thought you knew.”
“What?”
“She was collected a couple of hours ago. A private ambulance, I think.”
“Which hospital? Could I see the details, please?”
He said he’d get me the sign-out sheet. It would take a few minutes and he asked if I’d like to clean up. A minute after he left, I was brought a shirt, trousers, towel and a bar of soap.
I had to wash in a sink, but hot water and soap did the job. Dirt and blood swirled down the plughole as I emptied the sink and refilled it again and again.
The shirt was white and fitted OK. However, the trousers needed a few more inches and I decided my grubby pair looked better than ones that revealed my socks and ankle holster.
There was a phone in the room and I picked up and asked the operator to put me through to Gillman Barracks. I spoke to Lieutenant Cole and recounted what had happened.
“Oh my God,” he said when I told him about Sergeant Hegarty. “No one in the history of 200 Provo has ever been killed before.”
I said, “I’m sending him back, and tell Major Vernon that Hedge deserves a commendation. There won’t be much evidence left, but he helped in the destruction of an illegal alcohol and drugs factory. It was probably funding the bandits, and Hedge went into that jungle without fear.”
“I’ll pass it on,” he agreed.
I gave him the names that Bender had provided and said I’d provide a full report when I got back. Ending the call, I asked the operator for Minden Barracks hospital.
When the call was put through to Jane Dobson, I said, “You used my government credentials when you sent the memo out.”
“I’m sorry.” I heard her swallow. “Are you mad at me?”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m at the KL hospital now. Unfortunately the girl has died, so I couldn’t find out anything. There’s also concern that maybe she was too delirious to really recognize Laura’s name.”
Jane said nothing.
“You said she was also transferred to JB.”
“Monalisa? Yes. The same adoption centre.”
“You didn’t ask the lady—Miss Liang—there?”
“I didn’t think to ask about others. I should have gone armed with the names of all the children who had been transferred. All the ones I knew of—”
“Could you get that list?”
“The guy here is a pain. And officious. Looks down his nose at the rest of us.”
“Try him again. In fact, insist he gives you the list. Use my name—something you don’t seem to have a problem with.”
She laughed but there was little humour in it.
“Thanks, Ash. What are you doing next?”
“Back to Singapore.”
The doctor returned with a piece of paper. “Got to go,” I said, and I ended the call.
The doctor handed me the sign-out sheet. I saw the last name said Monalisa Cardoso, although her name was misspelled. It was today’s date and just over two hours ago. There was a staff member’s signature and then the signature of the person taking charge of the body. I could read neither.
I pointed to the staff member’s name. “Could I speak to this person? I’d like to know more about where the girl has been taken.”
“Ah, that’s a problem.” Doctor Meah looked awkward.
“Yes?”
“The reason I took so long coming back is because I don’t recognize the name and none of the staff will admit to signing her out. I’m afraid I can’t tell you where the body has gone.”
The doctor apologized as he explained about the ease with which bodies could be signed out. A dead body meant having the expense of storage and disposal.
“A hospital willing to take a body? Well, we don’t ask too many questions. Although we should at least know where it went.”
I said, “But it was an ambulance.”
“Yes. There is no way it could have been taken otherwise.”
“How many ambulances will have left here in the last couple of hours?”
He shrugged. “Four, maybe five. But that’s a complete guess, although one will have been yours. I understand you asked for two bodies to be transferred to BMH Alexandra.”
I didn’t say any more. I left the building and drove back to the entrance gates. There, I got out and questioned the guard.
“How many ambulances in the past two hours?” I asked him.
He thought for a moment. “Three. Yes, definitely three, if you include the odd one.”
“The odd one?”
“Private, they said. Had the red cross but was more like a van.”
My blood froze. “What colour was it?”
“Blue, sir. Dark blue.”
THIRTY-SIX
I had no idea which way the blue ambulance had gone but I put my foot down and raced along Route One. After an hour I passed a white ambulance and guessed Hegarty and Bender were on board.
I recognized where we’d come out of the jungle, Bender dying in the passenger seat, Hegarty’s body rocking and bouncing about in the back.
Later, I spotted the mile marker that shouldn’t have been there; the one used as a signal by the gang.
The clouds lowered and darkened. I was driving without a cover. It could rain at any moment and I’d be drenched.
I was over halfway by the time the first raindrops fell, and as soon as I spotted someone sheltering under a Cola tree, I decided to do the same.
The guy was a Tamil—at least that’s what I figured based on his simple skirt, naked upper half and white turban. He spoke no English, but I guessed he laboured on a rubber plantation—a tapper. We sat together under the great tree and watched the rain pound the road.
It reminded me of the time below the hill to the school at Bukit Zarah. That time it had been a Malay sheltering under a similar tree because of its plate-sized leaves.
The Tamil smoked and offered me a cigarette. I don’t smoke. I never have.
And then Hegarty’s ambulance went past.
I accepted the cigarette and he lit it from his own. We sat with our backs to the Cola tree and I took a puff.
I watched the rain and I thought about Sergeant Hegarty. His birthday. Twenty-four.
I thought about his silly jokes and the way his thick eyebrows moved. I thought about his smile and good company, his fascination with phrases and his Welsh lilt that meant I was never sure if he was serious or not.
He was a real character, a nice guy and I’d miss him.
I realized he didn’t deserve a medal, but his parents sh
ould be proud of their son. Unlike Bender’s. I still had Bender’s letter but I wouldn’t post it. He didn’t deserve the respect. He was also partly to blame for Hegarty’s death. Of course, the other part was my fault. I didn’t need a driver. I could have gone alone.
Thinking about Bender’s letter made me wonder whether Hegarty had done the same. I knew he came from a little town on the Gower Peninsula, beyond Swansea, in Wales. In that moment I decided I would write to them.
The cigarette burned down. I stood up and thanked the Tamil guy. He seemed to understand and placed his hands together like a prayer for me.
It was still raining. I got into the Land Rover and drove away. The seats were already wet and getting wetter by the second, but it felt good. It felt like the rain could wash away the guilt I felt for Hegarty’s death.
By the time I reached the small village where Hegarty had asked for eggs, I’d had enough of the rain.
I pulled off the road and parked next to the hut where the old man had been sitting. Two bedraggled dogs watched me as I climbed out. The chickens pecked the ground.
I couldn’t see anyone but there was smoke coming from one of the huts. It was fairly central to the tiny kampong and twice the size of the others.
Inside, I found the whole family sitting around the edge of the room. They had bowls of soup and tea. The old man was there and he nodded to me.
I was offered tea and sat by the door.
The old man scrutinized me for a moment. “You aren’t like the others,” he said.
“Which others?”
He looked away and shrugged. “Not the same.”
I wondered whether he meant the English generally or something more specific but couldn’t get any more explanation from him.
“Thank you for the eggs and water,” I said, filling the silence. “We managed to get all the way to Malacca because of you.”
The old man nodded.
“You mentioned three girls,” I said.
He scrutinized me again. One of the ladies said something to him and his lips tightened.
I was holding the folder from the hospital. The cover had damp patches but the contents were still dry. I took out the photograph of Monalisa Cardoso.
Singapore Girl_An edge of your seat thriller that will have you hooked Page 16
